


In The Middle Of The Night

by Huggle



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Kidnapping, Community: Meme of Interest, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sleepwalking, protective Finch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 06:32:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huggle/pseuds/Huggle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logan Pierce continues to try and acquire Reese, but more forcefully this time.  While John works out how to deal with that, he also discovers that Finch sleepwalks sometimes and apparently has issues he won't own to when he's awake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You don’t have to do this,” Reese said. 

He probably would have sounded more convincing if a sudden stab of pain across his shoulder hadn’t made him grate the words out.

“No?” Harold had one hand on his arm, guiding him at a pace more normally suited to him than John, into the main area of the apartment. It was another of his safe houses, one John hadn’t seen before. “I could list your physical injuries, John, but I think we both know it isn’t safe for you to be on your own right now, especially on your own with Mr Pierce casting a considering eye in your direction.”

Considering. That was one way of putting it. 

“About that,” John persisted. Harold eased him down into a chair.

“Yes, about that.” Harold stripped off his jacket, and hung it up on a small rack in the corner. “I can see we’ve left dealing with him perhaps a bit too long.”

John watched Harold move through the open plan room, saw the barely contained anger in his movements. He needed to derail this, fast. No one was more surprised than him to find out from his attacker the identity of the person behind it.

“I’m pretty sure getting me roughed up wasn’t part of the plan.” Not that he was sticking up for Pierce; he was mad himself at this point.

“No, just chloroforming you to aid in your abduction. He should have known you had the skills to fight off such an attempt.”

Mostly, John thought. It had taken a few seconds to break away from the guy who’d came up behind him and shoved the cloth over his face. The chloroform had started to take effect, and the fight was one sided for a few moments which was why he was this banged up. He was going to owe Fusco for this one; it was just luck on their part and Logan’s bad timing that Fusco was heading to meet him with a sealed record for their latest number.

Seeing the detective practically launch himself across the street to intervene, gun drawn, had been one of the most welcome sights John had ever experienced. Even if Fusco had inadvertently let the hired thug go when he had to stop John from pitching face first onto the sidewalk.

“He won’t be so stupid as to try that again, at least today.” He hoped he sounded convincing.

Harold was at the sink in the kitchen. He poured a large glass of cold water, and took a small orange pill container from his pocket. He came back to where John sat, and handed him the glass.

“Here. You might hurt now, but it’ll be worse later on.” He took out two pills and put them in John’s hand. 

John tried to take the bottle, but Finch held it out of reach. “Mr. Reese, I would not give you anything you were allergic to.”

“But you might give me something that has drowsiness as a side effect.”

“I thought he wouldn’t try anything again, at least today.”

John glared at him. “Harold.”

“Anyway, I’ll be staying here while you recuperate. No one injured and on medication,” he paused, staring pointedly at the pills until John relented and popped them in his mouth, “should be on their own. Obsessive _admirers_ not withstanding. Could you eat something?”

John wanted to ask Harold what his plan of battle was if Logan did actually show up there – alone or with an entourage. But seeing how the other man’s self control seemed as stretched as he’d ever seen, he decided to leave it alone.

Anyway, he was armed and his current condition allowed for, he was not going to get caught off guard again. Especially not since Harold was here. He couldn’t afford to be.

As if he’d spoken aloud, Harold said, “I can order in if you wish. Detective Fusco will be over shortly so I can collect Bear; and both he and Detective Carter will be checking in on us.”

John sighed. It would be good to see Bear – and he’d feel a lot happier with the security the dog brought for Harold – but that would be another safe house burned. If they kept going through them at this rate, Harold was going to blow his fortune on real estate.

..,,

He must have nodded off, because he woke up to the sensation of someone standing over him. Lionel Fusco was peering down at him. 

“You should have let me take you to the E.R,” he chided. 

“That’s sweet, Lionel,” John said. “It’s not like I’m wanted or anything.”

“Fine, be a martyr,” Fusco retorted, but he did pass John the glass he was straining to reach. “Maybe you should start taking the dog with you instead of leaving it to guard Finch.”

John felt in truth too miserable to exchange sarcasm with the detective. He tried to peer around Fusco to see where Finch was.

“He said he had to go out, pick up the dog and some things. I’ve to sit here and watch you and not let you do anything that would make you feel worse in your condition.” There was a hint of a grin there, but John could see the worry beneath it. He was oddly touched, given that their relationship had mostly started with Lionel having him cuffed in the back of a car that was taking him to be murdered.

“How long’s he been gone?” John asked. 

Fusco shrugged. “Couple of hours.”

John suddenly felt a little frantic. It shouldn’t take that long to collect Bear and presumably whatever Harold thought they might need while they were here.

He tried to get up, but Fusco put a hand on his shoulder. It was testament to how weak he was that it was enough to keep him there. All the same he felt the sudden panic at someone trying to hold him down, contain him, and his hand was on Fusco’s wrist before he knew what he was doing.

“John,” Harold said. Finch was there, suddenly, a paper bag clutched against his chest. He must have seen John’s reaction. “Sit back, please.”

If Fusco knew how close he’d come to a broken wrist, he gave no sign. Instead he wordlessly took the bag from Finch and set it on the kitchen counter. While he unpacked various necessities, Bear came scrambling up, harness lead trailing behind, all eager happiness. 

But as if he could sense John was hurt, he restrained himself admirably and waited while John ruffled his fur.

Finch petted Bear almost absently as he stood looking down at Reese.

“I suppose there’d be no point in asking how you feel.”

John dodged the question by nodding at the items Fusco was laying out on the counter. “You’re cooking?”

Finch raised an eyebrow at him. The look he gave said _I know that was avoidance, and I’ll tolerate it for now_. “I can promise you, John, you’ll manage to survive it. Detective, will you join us?”

Fusco made his excuses, but before he left wrangled an assurance from Finch that at the first sign of trouble he’d call for help. He did hang around long enough to help John to the kitchen table before taking off.

“We’ll owe Detective Fusco for this one,” Finch said. He had something in a pan on the stove, and was busy filling two bowls for Bear, one with kibble and the other with water.

John nodded. He sipped some more water, trying to ignore the fuzziness from the painkillers and the way they had stopped helping with the pain about the same time he’d tried to get up. It was probably too soon for the next dose, but if Finch didn’t have anything a little less soporific anyway he was going to have to just grin and bear it.

“I’ll pay Logan a visit,” he said, watching as Harold brought over plates.

Harold stared at him.

“...next week?” John added.

“I would think never,” Harold said, and went back to cooking.

A few minutes later, John was nudging pieces of chicken around his plate with a fork. He had been hungry until he tried to eat, but his appetite deserted him almost instantly.

“I can make you something else, something lighter?”

John sat back unhappily. “It’s not the food, Harold. I guess I’m just too sore to eat.”

Harold put his cutlery down and glanced at his watch. “You could take some more pills....”

John raised his hand, waved Harold back to his seat. “No. The last thing I need is to be knocked out if anybody comes by.”

Harold picked up the plates and put them on the counter. “You don’t seem to be grasping the whole safe house and recuperation idea.”

John wished it were that simple. It wasn’t the first time a safe house for them had proved to be anything but. That felt like a blow in itself; he put it down to the pain and the lingering lethargy, but really there wasn’t one place they could go where he could be absolutely sure no one would come after them.

“John,” Harold said. 

John looked at him. 

“I’ve got sensors on the windows and doors, and cameras on all the streets. We’ll know if anyone approaches the house, and sore and tired though you are, I don’t doubt your ability to keep us safe.”

“Right,” John said, quietly. Less than six hours ago, he’d been almost drugged into unconsciousness by a single assailant and had to be saved by Lionel Fusco.

It was nice that one of them didn’t have doubts.

..,,

2am came and went.

Before, thanks to Harold’s painkillers (John had snuck a look at the container when Harold’s back was turned), he’d been unable to keep his eyes open.

Now, he was too focused on trying to find a way to lie that didn’t have him breaking out in a sweat and breathing through the pain. He gave up finally, and forced himself into a sitting position. Muscles bunched and knotted; his stomach heaved a little at the movement.

If anybody showed up now – and sensors and early warning systems were fine if you had the ability to do something about them going off – he’d have to resort to throwing a pillow at them. Even at that he doubted his aim.

John stilled when he heard the irregular steps so familiar to him. Clearly he wasn’t the only one up and around – well, up, anyway. Harold’s bed was the other side of the room, hidden from view by the kitchen counter and the rest of the furniture. But it was him, up and moving stiffly through the dark.

“Finch?”

He got no reply. Maybe Finch hadn’t heard him, thought he was asleep?

“Harold.”

It was only when Finch got closer and John saw the distant look on his face that it dawned on him. Finch was sleepwalking.

He filed that away as another new piece of information on his employer – maybe not conducive to finding out more about Harold’s history, but certainly useful in that he would have to be aware of the habit in case it ever became a safety issue.

John tried to stand, not to wake Harold but to at least try and encourage him back into bed. He just twisted or moved the wrong way, and every inch of him seized up in protest. Barely able to breathe, he had to settle for reaching back with one arm and lowering himself down onto the bed.

Suddenly, Harold’s hands were on him. His face at first, cupping it, in a gesture that John could see was an attempt to calm him. Then Harold was trying to make him lie back.

“Finch, wait,” John protested, because his body didn’t easily want to move like it was designed to. “Harold....”

Something in his voice must have drawn Harold out, because the smaller man broke contact suddenly.

“John, are you alright?” He didn’t sound dazed or confused, as if he had just sleepwalked across the apartment and turned into the pushiest caregiver ever.

“No,” John had to admit. He was stuck, not just too sore to move one way or the other, but like his body didn’t know how to anymore.

“Alright, hold on,” Harold said. “We’ll do this together, get you up and into a hot shower. It will help. Trust me.”

_I do_ , John wanted to say. But he let Harold move him, guide him.

“Just turn that way a little, I know, it’s uncomfortable. Then lean towards me, yes, that’s it.”

With help, he was able to get up, and Harold put his arm carefully across John’s back and together they made progress towards the bathroom. Harold left him braced against the wall while he turned the shower on and held his hand under the spray. 

Satisfied, he turned to face John. “Will you be able to get undressed?”

John had had enough of humiliation for one day. And if he said no, what was Finch going to do? Kneel down, let John brace himself on his shoulders while he tugged John’s shorts off, and then have John haul him back to his feet?

“Yes. I’ll be ok from here.”

Finch looked like he clearly doubted the truth of that, but he did back off. “There are towels in the closet. I’ll leave the door open so call if you need me.”

He retreated, and John finally managed to strip and eased himself into the shower, where the hot water did a reasonable job of relaxing the muscles that had turned to iron across his back. When he came out, dried off as best as he could manage and the towel around his waist, Finch was waiting. 

“I took the liberty, earlier...of obtaining for you a few things.” Finch didn’t look at him as he held up a pair of pyjamas, plain black. John accepted them with a nod – not his thing but he hadn’t had a chance to pack before Logan’s thug had made a play for him on the street. It probably wouldn’t have been any less awkward if Finch had handed them over earlier, but John had pretty much passed out under the strength of the painkillers. Getting changed for bed hadn’t even entered into it.

“Thanks, Harold. You can go back to sleep, I’ll be ok.”

If Finch knew about his nocturnal wandering, he showed no sign. He did watch as John headed back to his own bed and, John suspected, stayed up (eyes probably averted to respect his privacy) until he was safely under the covers.

..,,

Carter came early the next morning; she had bagels and coffee and a treat for bear. She also brought painkillers for John that wouldn’t knock him out, and some ice packs which she stuck in the freezer.

“Because you will need those,” she told him. “Surprised you didn’t last night.”

John gave her a non committal look, but got the _I’m a mom, do you think boys of any age can pull one over on me?_ glare in return.

“How’s our number?” he asked, as the three of them settled at the kitchen counter. Settled being something of a euphemism in his case; he had to grit his teeth to try and keep still since no single position did anything other than ratchet up his discomfort. But he wasn’t about to dive on the pills Carter had brought. 

“Fusco dropped by her place last night; had a word with her about the risks of being a little fish in a big pond. Then he dropped her off at the bus station. She’s safely on her way to her aunt’s and he’s left those pictures and negatives in a locker for the Haynes brothers to pick up at their convenience.”

“Maybe I should get down time more often,” John said, then thought _too soon_. Finch swivelled his entire body round to stare at him. 

“Maybe _I_ should start following _you_ around,” Joss retorted. “Since you can’t keep your damn self out of trouble.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes, with only the occasional whine from Bear when he realised the chew Carter had brought him was the best he was likely to get.

“You thought about what you’re going to do about this Pierce guy?”

John wiped his mouth with a napkin, and finally reached for the pill bottle Carter had brought. He just couldn’t put it off any longer, checked the label then shook two into his hand. “No. Not really.” 

Not exactly true, but whatever he decided would need to wait until he could move without feeling like something had trampled him repeatedly into the ground.

Finch poured him some water and passed the glass over. “I would like to repeat that you are not going to see him.”

“Are you kidding me?” Carter’s eyes were wide. “He hires someone to try and lift you right off the street and you were planning on paying him a visit? Alone?”

“I was going to take a gun. You had a different idea in mind?”

“If you weren’t operating under the radar, I’d suggest making this a police matter. That’s still not necessarily a bad idea.”

“I can see how that would work,” he said, and swallowed the pills down. His side and his back had turned into a slab of leaden pain.

He expected a severe retort for his tone, but he could only guess how he looked to them. Carter reached across the counter, and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead and then his cheek. It was cool against his skin and he fought the urge to lean into it.

“I was thinking that maybe Fusco and I could drop by and speak to him – maybe someone reported what happened, a well intentioned citizen, and we found out from his guy what he’s been up to.”

“You’d have to find Mr. Reese’s assailant first. I can probably get you a name.”

John shot him a warning look. He turned his attention back to Carter. “Anything you say to him will just make him all the more curious. And he’s trouble when he’s curious. Besides, he has no sense of self preservation.”

“Or of gratitude apparently,” Finch added. “I think we can find a way to deal with Mr. Pierce, thank you, detective. But keeping an eye on us while Mr. Reese is recovering is much appreciated.”

Normally, that would have been his cue to protest that he didn’t need anyone keeping an eye on him, and it would have been true under normal circumstances. But Harold was here, and Logan Pierce was nothing if not persistent.

Malicious was not something John would have pegged him as. He still felt certain things had gone in a different direction the day before than Logan had intended. He and Harold going to ground Pierce had probably anticipated, but more in the ‘you’ll never find us’ sense than ‘I’m lying low because you sent someone to drug me and they knocked me around while I was on the verge of passing out’.

He was pretty sure Logan would be dismayed if he could see them now. Dismayed was good – scared and promising never to do it again would be better.

Carter’s hand was suddenly on his shoulder. “Maybe you should go get some more sleep.”

John saw the way they were both looking at him – he must have zoned out on them. “Actually, I’m-“

“If you say good, I will have Detective Carter strong arm you into bed for me.”

John felt his lips twitch despite himself. Carter glanced over her shoulder as the colour rose in Harold’s cheeks.

“I think it’s tradition for you to buy him dinner first. Anyway, I can’t hang around here all day with you three. Call me if you need anything.”

“Smooth, Finch,” John said, once she’d gone, because while he felt a little bad that Harold was still blushing, he couldn’t help himself. Besides, he deserved a little come back for that comment.

“Yes, well,” Harold said, and then made himself busy clearing up the counter.


	2. Chapter 2

The next ten days saw them handle four separate numbers – one dead (while he was trying to murder the lawyer who’d screwed up his divorce case), two safely moved out of the city and another now at the beginning of her trip through the judicial system.

As Finch had once told him, the numbers never stopped coming. 

But it looked like Logan Pierce had, at least for now. Which John knew didn’t change the fact that something still had to be done about the other man. Logan was not a problem that would resolve itself on its own.

For now, though, he was just extra careful, and other than that put his energy and concentration into their work.

He drove back to the library, parking in the employee section at the back, and climbed the stairs to the stacks. Until Finch had another job for him, he was looking forward to some coffee and a chance to tease him and toss Bear’s ball around for a bit.

But when he started down the passage towards Finch’s desk, he almost broke into a run. Finch was slumped forward in his seat, shoulders hunched, a slack look on his face. John was almost on him, ready to shake Finch’s shoulder, when he realised the only thing wrong with the smaller man was exhaustion.

He wondered how often Finch had done that; while John was on the way back to the library or to his own apartment after a number, stealing a quiet nap or just passing out from being so tired. With Harold’s physical condition, it was just asking for trouble, but if he was that tired John figured it was best to leave him.

If he woke Finch up, there would be awkwardness and sarcasm and Finch would insist on staying awake out of sheer stubbornness.

He gave Bear a regretful look when he saw the dog lying in his basket; Bear stared back with a calm understanding as if he too thought that Finch was better off asleep and was happy to watch over him while he dozed.

At something of a loss, then, John ventured into the stacks. When Finch had first found him, had shown him the library, John’s exploration had been to check the place for security and hopefully find out something about his mysterious new acquaintance.

Then it had been to find somewhere to store his arsenal, despite Harold’s protestations. It had taken a while for Finch to get the whole guns=security thing, but he was a little more accepting now about the need for them than he used to be.

This was probably the first time he’d actually browsed the stacks for the sole purpose of looking at the books. He moved quietly between the shelves, running his fingers over the volumes. He was no book expert, but the bindings looked old though preserved. John settled on a copy of something called ‘Dinner At Antoine’s’, and stood there tracing the first few lines with his finger while he decided if it was worth continuing to read.

He heard Harold before he saw him, and looked up in time to find him standing at the end of the stack, looking back at him.

“You should go to bed to sleep, Harold,” he chided, lightly. “Otherwise you’ll regret it when you wake up.”

Which clearly hadn’t happened yet, he realised, as Harold approached him in his uneven gait.

“Again?” John murmured. He lowered the book, ready to intercept Finch and try to encourage him to the small room he used as an occasional rest area – at least there was a cot there, better than sleeping upright in that chair. If he could persuade Harold to go along.

But it seemed like Finch had other ideas. He carefully took the book from John’s hands, and returned it wordlessly to the shelf. Then, before John could say anything, Harold put his hands on John’s chest, and ... it wasn’t quite a push, more a relentless pressure, an unspoken command, and John went along, letting himself be pressed up against the stack.

“Finch?” At least this time he wasn’t injured. “Finch, wake up.”

But Harold was staring at him, eyes narrowed, as if he was trying to figure John out somehow.

“Finch,” John started. But his voice wasn’t enough to draw Finch out this time. 

Instead, he started to undo John’s shirt. 

John froze. Not what he’d been expecting and for a moment he wasn’t sure what to do. Then he closed his fingers over Harold’s, tried to still him. Finch gave a small distressed noise; it took everything John had to let go of his hands, let him continue. It wasn’t so much that he had personal space issues – and even if he had, this was _Finch_ \- but he just wasn’t sure where this was going.

Finch pushed John’s shirt opened, gave another noise of frustration when he encountered John’s tee, then it too was pushed up and out of the way. John grunted as Harold’s fingers ghosted over the bruising that was starting to fade on his side. But when Harold’s fingers found the ragged outline of the bullet wound that had almost ended him months before, and ran across it, John was watching Harold’s face.

He had to look away.

“Finch,” he managed, after a moment. “Harold, it’s ok. I’m ok. Just....” He put his hands on Finch’s shoulders, eased him back. 

Finch went, slowly, sadly, and John didn’t know what to do again. He waited, hoping the other man would just snap out of it like before. But he didn’t, and they couldn’t just stand there. He took a breath, got himself together and managed to turn Harold towards the side room.

It took some doing, but he got him there, manoeuvring him carefully onto the bed, and then under the sheets. 

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” he promised, and then went to sit outside and wait for him to do just that.

It took maybe an hour for Finch to finally emerge, looking groggy and confused as to how exactly he’d ended up somewhere different from where he’d started. When he saw John sitting there, he automatically straightened his waistcoat, and ran his hands through his hair.

John held out his glasses, and Finch took them.

“Thank you,” Harold said, simply, and like that it was behind them.

Well, it was behind one of them.

..,,

After that, John wondered how he had missed it. It was startlingly obvious, now that he knew to look for it, and if he’d been so obtuse with Kara and Mark watching him, he didn’t want to think what his penance would have been.

That night in the parking structure...he hadn’t thought much about it at the time, his full will focused on not going down to his knees on the rough concrete. Because he’d known he was probably going to die anyway, a combination of shock and blood loss, but if he didn’t keep moving then there was no chance at all.

And Harold had come for him. Even knowing the CIA was there, even after Reese had told him to stay away. In the hours after he woke up, in a motel room with gaudy walls and a bed that felt like rock beneath him (because Finch was still trying to solve the logistics of how to get John mobile enough to get him to a safe house and that had involved Fusco and a covert operation John would have been so proud of if prolonged consciousness hadn’t been such an issue), he had just put it down to Finch being Finch.

After all, Finch had deposited himself at the evidence locker, aware that any second men with guns (Reese among them) would be storming the building. Had chanced exposure to warn John he was walking into a trap. 

Finch was paranoid, he’d admitted as much to John, but John hadn’t expected that paranoia to extend to him. Not about him, just to him...how many times had he gotten in a fight, had to run, and Finch was ever alert on the other end of the communication channel, asking was he alright, what was happening....

_Are you safe_?

Because now John could see that was always unspoken but tacked onto the end of Finch’s enquiry every time. That had to be driving Finch crazy – his only source of information as to John’s status his own reports, his GPS location and whatever Finch could see through any nearby CCTV feed he managed to hack.

And on those few times when John hadn’t been able to answer.... Or had smudged the truth only to show up later at the library with a bandaged hand or a bruised face. 

John knew it was hard. He’d been where Harold was, the handler, the person sitting waiting while another agent or an asset did a drop, staked out a relevant location, followed someone down an alley when he knew only one of them would be coming back out. He’d quickly learned some professional distance – not easy, not at all, but if he hadn’t, he would have broken hard and fast, and who knew what would have happened to him then?

But Harold probably understood the waiting after all, John realised. Before that first day, Harold had been the one watching as someone died and been helpless to prevent it. How many times, John didn’t know. The board with the outdated numbers was gone now – John had moved it one day into a back room, covered it up, because Harold was not going to spend each day torturing himself. He hadn’t asked, had just gone ahead and moved it. 

Harold had noticed, hadn’t said anything about it. Just kept going as if the board hadn’t been there in the first place. He’d probably found out where it was – John hadn’t hidden it or anything – but it had never been moved back.

Was it any different now, he wondered? With them working together, at least the number had a better chance of surviving – or the person they were targeting did – now than before, but there was still that waiting, waiting, waiting.

For the threat to reveal itself. For them to work out what to do. For John, or both of them, to go and do it.

For John to tell Harold over the comm that everything was fine, or to show up at the library with coffee and donuts and one time a concussion that he’d somehow missed having.

Everyone had a point beyond which it all got too much. Something had to give.

Maybe Finch had found his.


	3. Chapter 3

“He has to take these, regularly,” the ER doctor said, as she passed off a pill bottle to Reese. “Don’t let him take his standard medication at the same time. Will you be staying with him?”

A nurse wheeled Finch out of the triage area; he looked groggy and pissed off at the same time. 

“Yes,” he told her, and took the chair from the nurse and wheeled it down to the pick up point, where his car was waiting.

“What happened?” he asked, once Finch was safely in the driver’s seat beside him, and they’d pulled out into traffic.

“A muscle spasm. I get them, periodically. This was just...bad timing that it happened when I was on the stairs.”

“Well, you can’t go back to the library like that. Where can I take you?”

Finch glanced down at his strapped up knee. “I suppose the house on fourth and Baker. It has level access.”

Reese had them there in about fifteen minutes. It had its own on street parking, and then he was helping Finch through the door.

“You don’t need to stay, you know. I can manage on my own from here.” He gave John that look, the ‘I will just stare at you until you give in’ look. John would have thought Harold would have known by then that it had zero effect on him.

“No one injured and on medication should be on their own,” he said, and closed the door behind him.

“I expect you’ll be taking some kind of perverse enjoyment out of this,” Finch griped, as John guided him down the hall. “My bedroom’s there, you can take the one opposite.”

John helped him inside, and sat him down on the bed. “Because you fell down some stairs after suffering a muscle spasm. You’re right, Finch, it’s hilarious. How often is periodically?”

Finch tried to bring his right foot up to take off his shoes, but his face lost about three shades and he dropped his foot back down.

John knelt down, and then carefully slid off both shoes.

“Periodically,” Harold said, terse, until John looked up at him and he softened, a little. “That’s the first time it’s happened while I was on the stairs, however. Just...unfortunate.”

That was one word for it. John looked as he stood up. There was a dresser in the corner, and he opened the top drawer. There were several pairs of pyjamas there – he took out a set and put them on the bed. 

“Can you manage or do you need help?”

“I’m able to undress myself, Mr. Reese. I don’t have anything for you to change into, however.”

John shrugged. “I’ll cope. You’re not due more painkillers for another three hours.”

Finch undid his waistcoat. “If you leave them on the dresser, I’ll take them then if I need them.”

It was goodnight in not so many words. John went, calling back to Finch that he would see him in the morning.

He stripped down to his vest and shorts, hung up his clothes and rested his gun next to him when he got into bed. Maybe tonight, since Harold was hurt, there’d be no nocturnal wonderings. All the same, he left his room door open just in case there were, or Finch needed him during the night.

 

Something woke him in the darkness, and before he was even fully aware he knew that it was Harold.

He sounded pained, afraid, and that drove John to his feet. His hand found the gun in one smooth motion and then he was in the hall, through Harold’s door, and ready to kill anyone that had dared to come near them.

But there was only Harold. It looked as if he’d tried to get up – the foot of his injured leg was on the floor, but the rest of him was stretched awkwardly across the bed. He twisted and turned as if trying to find any way to get up, to lessen his obvious pain.

John put the safety on the gun and put it down on Harold’s beside table.

“It’s ok,” he soothed. He put his hands on Finch’s shoulders, tried to calm him. Straightening him out, getting him comfortable again, wouldn’t be possible while he was all worked up.

It didn’t seem to help. Harold struggled against his grip, moaning. John sighed; there was only brute strength to fall back on – the longer he let this go on, the more likely Harold would inadvertently pull him down on top of him, or take a tumble out of the bed.

John shifted his grip so he had one arm under Finch’s back, and reached down to slide his other arm under the injured leg. Quick and gentle was not an easy combination, but he did manage to get Harold back on the bed, in what he hoped was a more comfortable position.

“I’m betting you didn’t take your painkillers,” he chided, lightly. Maybe that was what Harold had been trying to do – or get to the bathroom. “Did you?”

Harold muttered something under his breath, and started to sit up. John rubbed tiredly at his eyes. Oh, here we go _again_. If it hadn’t been for Harold’s knee, he would probably already be meandering down the hall by now. “Finch,” he said, half protest, half complaint.

Harold turned a bleary face on him. He reached up, patted John’s cheek, a gesture that was comfort and question at the same time.

“Yeah, I’m ok. Harold, why don’t you lie down again?”

Finch seemed to think that was a good idea. He also seemed to think that John needed sleep as well, because he grabbed hold of his undershirt as he reclined and wouldn’t let go.

Harold had quite a grip on him, and John hadn’t been expecting that (though given the previous two occasions he probably should have). He tipped forward, bracing his arms on the bed in time to avoid tumbling down onto the smaller man. “Harold,” he protested. 

Taking him back to the ER because Harold had pulled him down on top of himself was a humiliation both of them could probably live without.

Not that Harold seemed to be considering that right now. All he seemed to be thinking was that he wanted John down beside him. When John continued to resist, he gave that low hurt sound again, and John surrendered.

He let Harold pull him down, then stretched himself out so he wasn’t actually on top of him. Harold had turned on to his side, refusing to relinquish his hold, as if he thought John might bolt at the first opportunity. Or so it seemed until one of Harold’s hands reached up, and fell lightly against the side of his neck. John stilled – not an easy thing to do, he didn’t particularly like people putting their hands on or near his throat, too mindful still of the time it had been done for real and with lethal intent – but when Harold’s other hand moved to wrap around his wrist, he understood.

It was reassurance. Harold’s fingers found and settled on his pulse points.

It was awkward, like that, to find somewhere to touch Finch, but John settled for putting a hand on Harold’s hip. 

“Harold, we’re ok. I’m not going anywhere.”

In his sleep, Harold smiled. His face lost some of that pained expression. 

John lay awake watching him until he seemed more naturally asleep than before, until he seemed just to be the slumbering version of daylight Harold, and rolled carefully onto his back.

He climbed quietly out of bed, decided sleep for himself was impossible now, and went to make some coffee.

 

A few days after that, they were leaving one of Finch’s favourite restaurants – which John half suspected Finch might own, but he got that feeling a lot and suspected Harold deliberately let him think it just to mess with him.

John spotted a yellow cab coming down the street, and he stepped to the kerb to flag it down, when he saw the movement – drawn to it because nothing caught his eye as someone trying to avoid it.

Somebody, the same size and build as his attacker, had just ducked back into the alley across the street.

The taxi pulled up, and he opened the door for Finch. Reached back to take his arm, and helped him in. Started to close the door after him, started to tell the hack where to go, when Harold’s hand closed on his arm like a vise.

“You will get in this cab right now, John. I saw him too.”

John didn’t try to tug away. Right now it might look like they were having a disagreement, or were just kidding around. “I’m going to deal with this, and you are going home.”

Finch glared at him, steely eyed. “I’m sure you’ve forgotten who works for whom.”

Finch didn’t often do that, pull rank on him. 

“I think you’ve forgotten I’m off the clock. And I can’t do this while you’re here.”

“Hey, bud,” the driver yelled. “You getting in or not!”   
John looked up; the driver’s voice had carried, and sure enough, he could see his mark making off through the crowd.

“Go home, Harold,” John urged, and darted across the street.

Cars honked at him, he barely dodged a poorly driven BMW, but he was around the corner in time to see Logan’s hired help head south across Foster and 7th. Reese let his anger drive him. He’d had as much of this as he could stomach. The attack on the street was bad enough, he’d come to expect to be in situations like that, to be at risk a lot of the time.

But being followed when he was with Finch; for all he knew, attempt number two would have come while he was seeing Finch to his door or maybe going inside, and Harold would have been dragged right into it.

He caught up with the other man just as they were passing the spare ground between two buildings. It had been fenced off, but a whole section had toppled over. John figure d it was as good a place to settle this as any.

Especially since his quarry was now trapped, the only way out past John himself.

“You should have left me alone,” John said, quietly. He felt the old calm settle over him. He knew this guy in an instant, saw how he was breathing hard but already starting to recover. In condition. But he was also bearing his weight more heavily on his left side than his right, so either he’d hurt himself during the chase or had a pre existing injury.

When he swung the first punch, he did it clumsily – relying on brute strength and sacrificing precision. And because he draw his arm back to do it, instead of snapping it out, John might as well have been watching it all in slow motion.

He got in under the blow, shouldered it aside, and slammed his fist into the man’s solar plexus. He went down immediately, onto his knees, while he tried to remember how to breathe. John went around behind and drove his knee into his back, forcing him onto his stomach. He pressed his hand to the man’s head, holding him down while he searched him.

Sure enough, there was a small case with a hypodermic and an unmarked vial of clear liquid in one pocket.

“For me? You shouldn’t have. You really, really shouldn’t.”

“John?”

John looked up, saw Harold standing there, looking down at him, and suddenly Logan’s guy was surging to his knees, knocking John back.

He made a run at Finch, and John’s gun was in his hand, but Harold just twisted out of the way and the guy was past him and gone.

“I thought I told you to go home,” John snapped. He started onto the street – there was still time, he could catch him.

Harold was in his way. 

“Let him go,” he said.

“You just did. What were you thinking?”  
“That the last time you had a confrontation with this man, he was almost able to take you.”

John glared but he had the feeling Harold didn’t mean win the fight. “It wouldn’t have happened that way tonight.”

“I know, because I had no intention of letting it.”

John yanked his temper back with an effort. He thought they’d been through this – Harold _handling_ him, trying to make decisions for him. John let him, to an extent but he’d thought Harold had learned where the line was.

Maybe Harold had, but was still deciding when it was his decision to cross it.

“And now we have to wait for another chance. Just like him.”

Harold reached down and took John’s hand. John didn’t say anything, a little stunned, but Harold just turned his hand over and took the small case he’d lifted from the thug.

“Two attacks where he could easily be seen – and one with an intervention – suggest overconfidence. So he’s probably left fingerprints on this. Once we know who he is, John, we’ll have the advantage. And then we will go and speak to Logan Pierce.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Includes some potentially iffy knowledge of somnambulism.

John met with Fusco the next morning, and they sat in a booth at the small cafe near Fusco’s house. He sipped coffee while Fusco wolfed down his breakfast, listening as John filled in him on last night’s attempt.

“You should just have shot the guy,” Fusco said, around a mouthful of toast. “You getting squeamish?”

John glared at him. “Finch was there. I didn’t have a clear shot.” 

He pushed the case over to Fusco. The detective wiped his fingers on a napkin and opened it. He gave a low whistle.

“You sure this Pierce guy doesn’t want you dead?” 

“I’m sure. He has a little trouble taking no for an answer, but this is beyond him. I think it’s got away from him, and he probably doesn’t even know it. So I want you to run the guy’s prints. Once I know who he is and where to find him-”

“Yeah, I get it,” Fusco said. “Then you can round him up without Finch being there and go see his boss. I’ll call you. Then we’ll make the delivery together.”

John had stood by then, dropping money onto the table for the check, and raised an eyebrow at the other man.

“What?” Fusco said, defensively. “You didn’t do so hot on your own, and what do you think the little guy’ll do if the third time’s the charm?”

“Just get me the name, Lionel.” He left, shoving the door open harder than he’d intended, and crossed the road to his bike. And he knew without looking that Fusco was watching, just in case. And probably until he got his stalker, both his detectives would be sticking to his tail whenever they got the chance.

Probably partly down to Finch, and probably partly off their own backs. 

John put on his gloves and helmet, a little overwhelmed, and headed back to the library. Whatever else was going on in his life, he still had a job to do.

:: ::

Fusco called him back in the afternoon.

There’d been no number so far, and he’d split the morning between yoga in a quiet corner of the library – with Harold occasionally passing by him and once bringing him a bottle of water – and then helping Harold move some equipment around.

When the detective rang, he was in the middle of cleaning some of the handguns.

“Arnold Booker, 48,” Fusco told him. “Flat 6a, 73rd street.”

“Record?” John finished assembling the gun he was working on and put it back in the case. 

“I’m sure his mother loves him,” Fusco said. “Might be the only one. Started out with some B&E in his teens, did some time for selling speed. Moved up to weapons charges and a protection racket before he reinvented himself as a troubleshooter. Couple of incidents of alleged kidnapping – one cross border – but all charges dropped.

“Sound like the kind your guy Pierce would hire?”

Finch was listening in on the conversation. He twisted to face John. “I think, detective, until he has John he’s been looking for a temporary stand in. And missed by a mile.”

John covered for himself by turning away to pick up the gun case and put it back in the cupboard. “Ok. You busy right now?”

“For this? I’ll make time. Carter’s in with the Chief of D’s, though.”

“You and I can deal with this. See you at his place in twenty minutes.”

He hung up and went back to the desk to find Finch was standing and putting on his coat. “Harold?”

“I’m coming with you,” he said, that ‘not to be argued with’ tone in his voice.

“I don’t think so,” John said. 

Finch stared at him. Then he walked to the door.

“Please make sure Bear has enough water and food until we come back.”

John closed his eyes, the beginning of a headache making itself felt in his temples and across his forehead. He had an idea what Harold was planning, and it wasn’t that much different from he was, but in Harold’s version he was there.

In John’s he wasn’t, and that was the only safe version as far as he was concerned.

Short of kicking Harold out of the car, John knew he was going to have company on the ride over.

::

He was grateful that Harold at least agreed to wait in the car. 

Fusco got out when he saw them pull in. John led him up the steps. He pressed random buzzers, except Booker’s, and no surprise that someone buzzed them in without troubling to ask who was there.

When they reached Booker’s apartment, Fusco pressed on the bell by the door. He held his thumb on it.

John had his ear to the door. He heard the heavy footsteps, recognised the slight drag of someone with a weak leg. He waited until he heard a cursed threat, and the lock being opened, and then threw his weight against the door.

Booker crashed inwards, stumbling down the hall as he tried to regain his balance.

John never gave him the chance. The fight was quick, a little brutal, and Booker did get one punch in that was going to leave John with a bruise on his jaw tomorrow. But it ended with Booker on his stomach, hands zip tied behind his back.

Cursing a blue streak over his shoulder at John, and then at Fusco when he came into view.

“Wow,” Fusco said, staring down at John. “Pissed, huh?”

“He sounds it.” John cuffed Booker across the back of the head.

“No, you,” Fusco corrected. 

:: ::

In that street, nobody paid too much mind to Booker being hauled downstairs. They looked like cops, after all, and they shoved Booker into the back of Fusco’s car. He stayed there until they found a quiet pedestrian tunnel in the park, big enough to accommodate both vehicles.

With John looming over him, Fusco standing there also with a hand on his gun, Booker had sulkily told them what they needed to know.

Then he’d made the transition from being Fusco’s back seat passenger to riding in Harold’s trunk.

He snarled and spat at Finch once as he was relocated, but Fusco gave him a hard shove before John could step in.

“I’ll tail you to Pierce’s,” the detective offered.

“No, thank you,” Finch said. “This is something I’d prefer we kept low key, but I appreciate the offer.”

Fusco stared at them, his face clearly asking the question if this was their idea of low key.....

John shrugged, and drove them to Pierce’s apartment.

It was getting dark, which helped, and the police badge John still carried got the parking garage attendant to let them through no questions asked.

John picked a space close to the private elevator that would take them up to Pierce’s home. He pressed the intercom button, and after a moment the camera screen came on.

Logan’s mouth dropped open and it took him a second to get himself together. “John. So.... This is a surprise, not unwelcome, just....” He paused, looked away, and then looked back. “Uh, are you alone?”

“No. Send the elevator.”

“Sure.”

The elevator pinged, and the small light above it showed its progress towards them.

Once Logan had turned off the intercom, John hauled Booker out of the boot. There was a chance the CCTV system would catch them, but if John knew Finch he already had plans to hack the system and wipe it later.

The same for the small camera in the elevator itself. 

Controlling Booker on the ride up was easy. He was less cocky now; with his hands zip tied he wasn’t much of a threat. Especially not when John had made it clear if he gave him cause, he’d snap Booker’s neck in a second.

John had asked Harold to stay downstairs with the car, just in case, but Harold had refused before John could even finish.

“I don’t think so,” he’d said. “Now let’s speak to Mr. Pierce, because to be frank I am sick and tired of him harassing you.”

John had a feeling it would mostly be Harold doing the talking. He still felt it was a bad idea, but maybe on the other hand Finch had called it right. 

He’d probably lost a little of his edge with Logan, was a little too close. Breathing for someone when they’d been poisoned and were suffering anaphylactic shock tended to do that.

That was the problem, he reasoned. Logan didn’t believe John would hurt him. He’d pushed John and pushed and pushed, and the worse John had done was to walk away. Then come back.

Logan needed to learn boundaries, and John knew Finch could teach him the lesson. Finch was probably more on Logan’s wavelength, in so far as that was possible, than he was.

He certain was stunned to see all three of them at his door, but he recovered quickly and admitted them.

“So, hello. Again.” He looked Finch up and down. “You don’t let him out on his own?”

John winced as Finch took two steps forward, putting himself between them, and glared at Logan.

“I prefer the direct approach, Mr Pierce. I’m here to return your employee and advise you to leave mine alone.”

Finch twisted to look back at John, and so he obediently shoved Logan’s lackey at the younger man.

“This is starting to look like it didn’t go like I intended,” Logan said slowly. He glanced at Reese. “You’d beat a guy up for trying to head hunt you?”

“Head hunt?” John growled, but Finch silenced him with a look.

“I think you were either very poor at giving instruction or your friend here decided on his own interpretation. Or rather took advantage of your ignorance to profit from the situation.”

Logan glared at the zip tied henchman. “What did you do?”

Booker was sullen, but when John nudged him he gave it up. “You said you wanted him. Acquire him, you said. Figured if you were willing to pay me what you offered to find him and coax him over to you, then you’d pay more if I decided to hold on to him.”

“Hold on to him?” Logan’s voice turned choir boy high. “I...please tell me he didn’t do anything stupid.”

Finch got even closer to Logan if it was possible, and said, very quietly, “Not as stupid as you sending him after John in the first place. If that ever happens again, Mr. Pierce, if you ever do anything that causes him to be hurt.... Someone close told me you have no sense of self preservation. I could help you find one.”

He turned back to the door, took John’s arm and ushered him out ahead of him.

John let Finch steer him back out to the elevator. Once they were in the car, and John insisted on driving, using the road to give him a chance to collect his thoughts, he watched Finch out of the corner of his eye.

If anything, he looked even angrier than before they’d gone to confront Logan. 

He turned right at the next corner, heading for the library, when Harold’s hand closed over the steering wheel. “No. The house on Belmont.”

John said nothing, just pulled in until he could do a U-turn, then headed in the other direction. He’d been there only once, when Finch had asked him to pick him up, but he’d never been inside the door. It hadn’t been long after the CIA had shot him, and the ice between him and Finch had started to crack. 

Looking back, he knew now that it was one of several give ways from Finch. This thing with the sleep walking, the fear that he could only show when he was so totally unaware of doing so, that was another.

Finch had told him once how paranoid he was, and clearly that extended to being able to tell John his fears. As if he wasn’t sure how John would react.

And of course he’d never been conscious to see John’s reaction.

Maybe that was the problem. 

John parked the car, and followed Finch up the small flight of stairs to the front door. He tailed him inside, let Finch close the door, lock them in and then he used his weight to trap Harold between himself and the wall.

“John?” Finch’s voice held a note of concern, but no fear, no panic.

“I’m ok. I have to keep telling you that. You need to stop worrying about me.”

“That is something of an impossibility.” Finch’s face was raw, open. “You spend the majority of your time running headlong into situations where you could be taken, hurt or killed. I send you into those situations.”

“I wouldn’t go if I didn’t want to. You need to trust me to get myself out of them, too, Finch. And I trust you to get me out of them, if for any reason I couldn’t.”

Finch put his hands on John’s chest, and for a moment he thought he’d said too much for the other man to take. Finch was going to push him away. 

Instead, Harold grabbed John’s coat, and held him there as if to prove John’s point, that Finch hadn’t owned to any of this because he feared the reaction. He couldn’t seem to meet John’s eyes.

“I find it difficult to let you go. Each time. And bad enough that you are at risk because of our work, but this.... This was not something I could tolerate.”

Or deal with, John thought. “I don’t think we’ll have to worry about him again.” Because he’d seen Logan’s face. Finch had done more than give him pause for thought.

“No,” Finch said, quietly. “I suppose not.” He let go of John then, and waited until John had stepped back before he limped tiredly down the corridor.

John followed, at a distance, as Harold switched on the lights in the kitchen. He filled the kettle and set it on the hob, then took two mugs out of a cupboard. He put coffee in one, and set a small strainer over the other before he filled it with some loose green tea.

Once the kettle started to whistle, he filled both mugs and passed the coffee to John.

“You sleepwalk,” John said, as he leaned against the counter.

“I thought as much, that day in the library, when you had my glasses. I could tell there was something you weren’t saying, that something had happened to make you nervous.”

“Not nervous. Just...concerned.”

“Somnambulists are typically perfectly aware of their surroundings, Mr. Reese. It’s very rare that they injure themselves. Even falls from a reasonably low height tend not to be serious because of how relaxed the body is. At any rate, it hadn’t happened for a while, or so I thought.”

“You want to tell me what sets it off?” He knew, but he wanted to hear Finch own to it.

“Stress, typically. The cause varies from person to person, situation to situation. Emotional upset, fever, traumatic experience.”

“What does it vary from with you?”

Finch stared at him. “I think we’ve covered that, already. And I was the one who told you we would probably neither of us live very long doing this.”

John couldn’t bring himself to say they’d lasted longer than he’d given them – either in terms of survival or a partnership. He hadn’t lied when he’d said the safest he’d ever felt was behind the anonymity of a homeless person. It hadn’t been the whole truth either – that had been the safest, until Finch had taken him in. Despite everything that had happened, that they’d learned, since.

He didn’t really know how to reply. Finch wouldn’t thank him for false assurances, and John didn’t feel like tempting fate. Tomorrow, he might run into someone he couldn’t take. Elias might decide his soft spot wasn’t so soft after all and leave a bomb under his car. Logan’s man might have been a bit stronger, or Fusco held up in traffic.

Root might finally....

John couldn’t follow that one through. His nightmares might not drive him to sleep walk, but that didn’t mean he had none.

He startled when Finch took the mug of coffee out of his hands, and put it down on the counter. He reached up and rested his hand on John’s cheek. 

“It’s ok,” he said.

John struggled to look at him; the intensity was more than he could take. Finch didn’t try to make John meet his eyes but he kept the contact. It was John’s anchor, steadying him under the assault as he realised that even though he was asleep at the time, Finch had at least been honest about how he felt.

“Harold,” he started.

“Ssshh,” Finch said. “John, I want...this is a gross assumption, but....” He trailed off, and again John saw that fear in him, of his expected reaction.

“Maybe you should just show me what you want,” he offered. And then there was nothing to do but wait and see if Finch would or if it was too much or too soon.

Harold slid his hand to cradle the back of John’s head, and carefully urged him forward. He pressed a hesitant kiss to John’s lips, chaste, restrained. John closed his eyes, put his hand on Harold’s back to support him. Other than that he didn’t move, letting Finch set the pace and course.

Finally, Finch leaned back. He didn’t move his hand, and John had to open his eyes. 

Harold was looking at him, his focus intent. He took a step back, lowering his gaze, and let his hand drop away from John.

It wasn’t hard to see what Finch was doing. Worried he’d misinterpreted, somehow. He was giving John a chance to freak out and go.

“I don’t think so,” John said, and stepped back into Finch’s space. “There’s nothing you can do that’s going to drive me away, Harold. Certainly not being afraid for me. And not this.”

Finch sagged against him. He patted John’s arm awkwardly - only Finch would see that as a sort of second base. 

“It’s been an eventful night,” he said, finally, and looked up at John. “I thought I might turn in.” He caught the edge of John’s cuff, and waited.

“Ok,” John said, and followed him to the bedroom. He stood there, now a little unsure himself, as Harold took off his coat and suit jacket. Harold then stood watching him. His face betrayed that nervousness again, and John thought to hell with it, and started to shrug off his coat.

Harold was there, suddenly, helping him. He took John’s coat, and hung it up. When John turned around, Harold reached up to take off his tie, and moved onto the shirt. He tugged it free from John’s pants, his fingers warm against John’s skin. Then he started on John’s buttons, and John felt like his breathing was too hard, too fast, just from letting Harold undress him.

From letting Harold take control. It was only when Harold rested a hand on his shoulder, stopping until he was sure that this was ok, that John realised he’d always let Harold take control. Even without realising it so this? This was just another step down that path.

Later, with Harold pressed against his back, hand resting possessively on his hip, John turned enough to look over his shoulder at him.

“Are you going to sleepwalk tonight?” he mused.

Harold gave him a sleepy smile. “I doubt it. But if I do, you can always follow me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a meme of interest prompt that asked for Reese finding out that not only did Harold sleepwalk but he also had very strong feelings for him.


End file.
